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little vegetable operation bore the standard 30% taxes to support the military and public services, because it was ‘subsistence’ level – less than 3 acres. Pine Ridge Orchards didn't have that problem. They could pad their payroll to hundreds of people, and probably did, to shield as much as possible from higher taxes. Regardless, Emmett's organization would essentially confiscate over half his harvests, one way or another.
Mike gave a good impression of not minding in the slightest, though.
“So we can glean the whole orchard?” Emmett pressed.
Mike grinned. “I've got over a hundred acres in apples, Emmett.”
“I might have some friends on the way,” Emmett suggested.
“Now how are we going to make that much applesauce, Emmett?” Liddy complained.
Mike sighed. “Alright. I'll press them into cider for you, too.”
“Bless you, Mike!” Liddy replied, with a beatific smile.
The deal was concluded before Emmett’s ‘other friends’ started rolling in, trucks full of professional farm workers, mostly Hispanic. Emmett saluted their leader, who wore properly complete Army camouflage uniform. Lieutenant Colonel Carlos Mora, Emmett’s commanding officer, had brought his friends from Middlesex county next door. Mora’s elder brother was still in the fruit picking business, as a farm labor organizer.
“You tricked me,” Mike commented.
“You underestimated me,” Emmett countered. “Now what kind of resource coordinator would I be, if I couldn’t get an orchard gleaned?” He smiled in challenge, and then relented. “You still OK with this deal, Mike? It’s for a good cause.”
“Yeah,” said Mike. He sighed. “Can’t let all these windfalls go to waste. You’re doing me a favor. I’d just have to hire those guys anyway.” He shook his head and waved to the crew bosses. He wandered over to them, to set up logistics with the pros.
“It doesn’t matter how many apples the kids glean, does it?” I said.
“It matters that they helped,” said Emmett.
“They’ll be proud of themselves,” Liddy agreed. “Let’s get them started, Emmett!”
“I’ll find you later, darlin’,” Emmett assured me.
I lost sight of the massive operation around me, as I settled into picking through my assigned row of Macoun apples with the Amenoids. Alex wisely stuck with the other suburban teenagers he’d found, and vanished up the hillside. He’d find his way back to the car eventually.
Gleaning apples is fun at first, then hard work as the sun beats down on you doing stoop labor. I was used to it, and conveyed a steady stream of apple bags to the nearest collection crate. The Amenoids quickly progressed to spending more time on break than working.
“Do you have to talk politics all day?” I complained, after Mel concluded a particularly academic diatribe against the food taxes. “Mel, your theory could be impeccable, and still completely irrelevant. We need to eat. The guys with the guns need to eat. The apples need picking. We have peace and protection so we can pick them. The weather’s gorgeous for once. How about you get off your high horse and pick up some apples?”
“When does it end, Dee? No, tell me. When do we escape martial law and restore free government and free trade?”
“When does it start, Mel? I’ve been producing food all year. You’re still on your ass. Yet you’re still eating.”
Dave pulled Mel to his feet and got the trio working again.
I probably should have shut up, but I wasn’t done. “You know, before the borders, this orchard probably paid just as much in taxes as it does now. Income taxes, payroll taxes. The property taxes would have been murder. Most farms didn’t survive here on the shoreline. The taxes were too high. Developers offered too much money to just give in and sell off housing parcels. Now we need peace and order to pursue agriculture. People like me who produce food, we want predictable taxes and protection, instead of random violence and looters. The